


On the Migratory Practices of the Phoenicopterus Ruber, or, Strange Birds

by QuickLikeLight



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Flamingos, Fluff, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Winterlock Exchange Fic, sex holiday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-27
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2018-01-10 07:20:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1156731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickLikeLight/pseuds/QuickLikeLight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Did you actually drag me halfway across the world to watch some pink birds standing around, Sherlock?” “Technically, it’s a bit more than halfway, even if you use the slightly larger equatorial diameter measurement.”</p><p>John and Sherlock on holiday in the Bahamas. What else could you ask for?</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Migratory Practices of the Phoenicopterus Ruber, or, Strange Birds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jazsy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jazsy/gifts).



> Update, April 22, 2015: Over a year after initially writing this, I've revisited it, made some edits, added a couple hundred words, and taken out all those pesky epithets. I was happy with the work when I did it, and I'm even happier now. Hooray for constantly improving!
> 
> This work is for [Jazsy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jazsy/pseuds/jazsy) / [Dinosaurswearingdior](http://dinosaurswearingdior.tumblr.com/), who wanted John/Sherlock with an established relationship, lots of dialogue, and flamingos. I hope you enjoy it, love. <3

“Did you actually drag me halfway across the world to watch some pink birds standing around, Sherlock?” John scuffed his shoes in the wet dirt of the small arena.

“Technically, it’s a bit more than halfway, even if you use the slightly larger equatorial diameter measurement.”

Sherlock's hair stuck out in a halo of frizzy curls, and the moist heat of the Caribbean air brought a heady flush to his pale cheeks.  He looked a bit like a schoolboy, perched as he was on the crude wooden bench, watching as a trainer led a pair of large, colorful flamingos around for the audience. His white shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow and the tail untucked over his jeans were the only concessions to the warm climate. John’s dark blue t-shirt stuck uncomfortably to the small of his back, but the look in Sherlock’s eyes delayed his grumbling. He was obviously enchanted.

“You have the diameter of the earth at the equator memorised, but you can’t remember Greg’s name, and him your best friend?” John huffed, watching Sherlock rather than the birds.

“Of course I know his name, I’m not stupid. I enjoy the look on his face when I call him something else." Sherlock looked as if he might like to roll his eyes, but that would mean looking away from where one of the flamingos was patiently grooming the other, combing through brilliant feathers with its beak. "And he’s not my best friend.”

“He’s not.” John crossed his arms over his chest despite the heat. Some things needed to be weathered with a strong stance regardless of climate. "You sure about that?"

“Why do I spend all of my time with someone who is such an idiot?” Sherlock sighed, physically dragging his eyes away from the birds. John smiled a bit in spite of himself. He shouldn't encourage it, the pouting and the insults, but it was rather enjoyable to watch Sherlock wind himself up on occasion.

“Your best not-me-friend, I meant.”

“No, Greg is your best not-me-friend. If I were to have friends other than you, and I don’t-” John rolled his eyes at the blatant lie, “- Molly Hooper would hold that place of dubious honor, as apparently, sexual attraction is required for best friendship, and George is not in the least bit interested in me.”

“Wait, wait, sexual attraction is definitely not required for best friendship, Sherlock,” John sputtered. He decided to ignore the mention of Molly’s attraction entirely; she was married to a good man that she adored with a baby on the way, and Sherlock was a git for bringing it up. “Why would you say that?”

“Scientific case studies have shown-”

“Sherlock.” He could tell the beginnings of a lie when he heard one now. Usually. Sherlock frowned.

“Is it not common for monogamous couples to proclaim their intent to spend the rest of their lives with their ‘best friend?’” He made the face, the one that said I’m obviously missing some vital piece of human interaction programming, please assist. “You are my best friend, and I am very confident in your sexual attraction to me. It seems from observation that sexual attraction is a key component to lasting and meaningful best friendship.”

John reached out and smoothed a palm gently through Sherlock’s hair, down to the nape of his neck.

“Being someone’s best friend doesn’t mean you’re necessarily attracted to them, Sherlock. But being in love often includes both, yeah? Friendship and attraction.”

“Us.” Sherlock looked back out into the dusty arena, slowly emptying of tourists as the show ended.

“Of course. Like us. Friendship, and attraction, and… ah, well, you know.” John squeezed Sherlock’s neck once, a careful, grounding gesture. A beat passed in comfortable silence, both men breathing in the rich, clean smell of the ocean beyond the trees. When Sherlock spoke again, his voice was soft and fond.

“Did you know that migratory flamingos can travel up to eleven hundred kilometres in a single day, John?”

“Sherlock, why would I kn- _wait_. Sherlock! Are you saying Greg’s attracted to me?”

-x-

The trip had been a last-minute thing, one he hadn't bothered to understand enough to disagree with. John had stumbled out of bed the day before, wrecked from too-few hours of sleep after chasing criminals all night, to the sight of Sherlock hastily throwing all their warmest weather things into a large suitcase.

“Come along, John,” Sherlock had said, pressing a fierce-but-brief kiss to the doctor’s mouth, before pushing John toward the shower. “Our flight leaves in less than two hours, and I can’t wait for the next one.”

Sherlock kept quiet about the case details on the plane, but John barely noticed, blissed out from a combination of a quick, stiff drink and a diazepam.

“Don’t like planes,” John had said, head lolling slightly on his shoulders. Sherlock had smiled at him, that soft smile he got when he thought John wouldn’t notice, or remember.

“I know you don’t.”

John had slept most of the way.

The beach house reminded John of the quietly posh club Mycroft spent his time in. The fixtures were simple, the materials expensive, the effect classic and timeless, like Sherlock’s suits and Mycroft’s cars. It made John - comfortably middle-class, well educated, worldly John - uncomfortable.

“Why are we here, then, Sherlock? Is this some sort of case for Mycroft?” He tried not to feel self-conscious as he hovered in the doorway of the single bedroom, wearing the plaid shorts he’d put on when they landed and it became obvious that his jeans and jumper would be inappropriate. Sherlock just gave him a look.

“Don’t dither, John.” Sherlock spread himself over the crisp white linens on the bed, making a duvet angel in the fluff of downy softness. With his long, catlike limbs sprawled artfully and riotous curls splaying just so over the pillow, Sherlock looked more model than man. He sort of wished he had a camera, could capture that look in a photograph, but there was nothing for it. Just as soon as he thought of going for his mobile, Sherlock flopped dramatically in another direction, ruining the effect.

John leaned up against the large patio doors, peering out into the hazy afternoon. The view was incredible. The secluded patio was lined with Greco-Roman columns and sheer drapes, and peppered with lounge furniture so luxurious it made John cringe to think of it during the rainy season. Further out, a small private pool full of clear water separated them from the isolated stretch of beautiful white sand leading down into the ocean. The sky was so much more blue here than it was in London, or even Kabul, like it hoped to blend right into the sea. John shaded his eyes from the sun reflected off of almost every surface, blinding.

“If we finish this case early, maybe I’ll get a chance to get my tan back,” he grinned over his shoulder at his lounging flatmate. Boyfriend? Lover?Flatmate. Sherlock’s slight smile grew, turning heated as he raked his eyes over John’s body, no doubt imagining pale skin being kissed by the sun’s warmth. “Of course, to finish the case, you do have to tell me what the case is.”

“Don’t be boring, John,” Sherlock grumbled, turning on his side. Glasz eyes moved quickly over the horizon, taking in every detail of the gorgeous paradise. The grin was gone. Changeable as the sea, that one.

“Are we looking for someone in particular then? Something to do with the bird trainer? What, is he an international drug smuggler or something?” John sat on the bed next to his partner in crime-solving, patting Sherlock’s calf absently.

“Don’t be ridiculous, the flamingo keeper is an incredibly honest man, possibly more morally upright than you, and completely devoted to the care of his charges.”

“So who are we looking for?” He couldn't help but be a bit frustrated. Sherlock kept details from him regularly, to avoid uncomfortable questions or to cover up for some unfortunate soul. Sometimes, John thought he did it just for fun. But details were different than an entire case, and this was... Well. Unusual behavior from an unusual man.

Sherlock sat up on his elbows, quirking one eloquent eyebrow in his direction.

“How deep is that swimming pool?”

John frowned, trying to figure out the correlation between what was asked and what was answered.

“Looks like there’s a little shallow end and then it gets deeper. Probably six feet or so? Definitely enough to drown in, if that’s why we’re here...”

“Six feet is quite a distance above your head, John,” Sherlock smiled.

“Like I said, enough to drown in,” John shot back, pointedly ignoring the jab at his height. Sherlock swung himself over and sprawled across John’s back and shoulders, wrapping his arms snugly around John’s neck. He brushed his mouth over John’s ear.

“I would very much like to see you soaking wet if you don’t mind.”

John’s thought processes stuttered to a hault.

“Naked, if that won’t be too much trouble.”

His brain roared back to life.

“The case…?”

“Is not half as important as calculating the exact hue of your hair when wet with salt water under a mid-afternoon sun that is slightly over halfway around the world from Baker Street.” Sherlock tugged on the hem of John’s t-shirt, bringing it gently up over his head. John shivered as long, cool fingers skirted his skin, over his ribs, down his slight belly. They moved almost as one off of the bed, stripping clothes as they went. John’s shorts fell in one small heap, Sherlock’s button-down in another, jeans and pants tossed to the side on the warm stone of the patio.

The water was cool and clear, the color of John’s eyes first thing in the morning, or Sherlock’s late at night. They sank in together, not touching but held as if in mutual orbit, circling one another as they walked down the gentle slope into the deep end.

Bit like us, John thought, a bit giddy with lust and something… else. Got a flat, had adventures, always slowly sinking further, toward this, the deep end. Something must have shown on his face, because Sherlock stopped, water lapping just above the crest of his hips, and quirked his head.

“Feeling sentimental, John?”

With the sound of the surf in his ears, John leaned forward, his face spare inches from Sherlock’s.

“Would you like for me to be?”

Sherlock slid forward, and paused, drawing it out as their breath mingled and their bodies held fast. He waited, waited, air surging between them like the tide. In, out. In, out.

By the time he tipped forward the rest of the way, John was near-mad with it, with the need and the want that shaped his character, made his decisions for him without rational thought. The touch of Sherlock's lips was like electric shock, burning over wet flesh. He welcomed it. His arms grabbed at Sherlock's shoulders without conscious thought, found him in that special way that bodies do when they know one another in all the ways there are to know, but not well enough just yet to consider wasting an opportunity to find out more. Sherlock’s hands pulled tight around John’s waist, and in return, John tangled his own in the mess of Sherlock’s hair. Silky strands slid through his fingers, curling wildly in the humid air.

“Oh, God, _John_ -” Sherlock’s voice broke off into a quiet moan and John tugged harder, wanting to relish that sound, the sound of Sherlock Holmes in that place between crystalline concentration and lust-addled mental lassitude. It was heady, brilliant, having so much power over someone generally so far above, always in control. John dove in, mouthing Sherlock’s neck, his shoulder, his collarbones. He hitched one leg up around Sherlock’s hip, pressing them together, and Sherlock scooped up the other in his hand, easily holding him in the water despite his weight. Within seconds, they were much further out than John remembered, the water swirling around where their chests pressed together.

Sherlock’s skin against his was warm and soft, the flesh underneath it familiar and yet every time a new experience. They inhaled together, warm, moist air that smelled of fragrant blossoms and salt. They exhaled together, mixed breaths over bodies damp and easy. John wriggled in the cradle of Sherlock’s hands, rutting them lazily together in no hurry to relieve the arousal building steadily in his stomach. Sherlock’s fingers made idle trails up and down John’s thighs, ticklish and shocking in turns. John dragged one of his hands away from Sherlock’s hair and skirted down between them, gripping Sherlock’s erection. Sherlock shuddered, a full-body quake that shifted them both in the water.

“If you put me down, I could probably take care of that for you.”

“If I put you down here, you’d most certainly go under,” Sherlock laughed against John’s skin.

“I wouldn’t, if you hadn’t drug us out to the deep end, you berk,” John countered, giving Sherlock’s erection one hard stroke. Sherlock groaned, letting his head fall back and his eyes close, but never loosening his grasp on John’s thighs, keeping them pressed close to the skin of his hips.

“Well, I’m definitely not taking you back. Not now that I’ve got you here where I want you.”

“And how do I know that you won’t just drop me, soon as I give you what you want?” John asked, teasing. He ground his hips into Sherlock’s, setting off sparks of brilliant, firelight pleasure behind both their eyelids. His hand moved slowly, brushing over both of them with drawn out touches and barely-there pressure.

“Well, that’s the thing about the deep end, John. It means you just have to trust me,” Sherlock punctuated his sentence with a kiss, deep and fast. It stole John’s breath, made his stomach clench and his hand spasm on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“And me,” hesaid, pulling away, “with trust issues.”

His chest felt tight. It hovered at the edges, the acknowledgement that this was not about the water. And Sherlock had accused _him_ of being sentimental.

“One hundred and eight days.” Sherlock mouthed John’s neck and shoulders, fingers gripping John’s arse in a subtle display of strength.

“What’s that?” John let his head fall forward, submitting to Sherlock’s attentions as his left hand gently tortured both of them.

“You and I have been intimate for one hundred and eight days.”

“Keeping track?”

“It isn’t as though I’m doing so on purpose.” Sherlock rolled his hips, sending slow shivers up John’s spine. John carded his free hand through wet curls and watched as water eddied in the crevices between their pressed bodies. It reminded him of tidal pools, the way water would spin and swirl in time with an invisible force, even disconnected from the ocean.

“I don’t mind. A hundred and eight, huh? Is that a record for you then?” John grinned.

“John, four days is a record for me. Stop fishing for compliments.” Sherlock’s breath hitched as John wrapped his hand tight around them both, bringing smooth, sensitized skin together.

“So we’ve lasted… ah…. what? Twenty…”

“Twenty-seven times longer - ha - than any of my previous sexual encounters, yes, thank you,” Sherlock groaned, shifting in the water.

“Maybe we should celebrate,” John nipped playfully at the flesh nearest his mouth, a bit of pale skin near Sherlock’s ear.

“What is it that you supposed we were doing here?” Sherlock’s voice was rough, and his chest shook with restrained laughter. “God, you really are an idiot.”

John’s hand stilled between them. He blinked once, twice, took a deep breath.

“There isn’t a case.”

Sherlock had the good grace to blush, at least. “Not as such, no.”

“You dragged me halfway around the world for a sexy beach holiday because we’ve been together twenty-seven times longer than four days?”

“A bit over halfway.”

John wobbled, his grip on Sherlock’s hips weakening, but Sherlock held him fast. His face was full of mirth and mischief, and  something lovelier, something they hadn’t said yet but might soon, something that had been unspoken from the date of one very eventful cab ride, but not unknown. Never unknown.

John pressed forward, wrapping one arm around Sherlock’s shoulders and using his left to bring them together once more. He kissed desperately, like the only source of the world’s oxygen, the meaning of life, and the thrill of the best case could all be found in Sherlock’s mouth. He stroked with intent, and within minutes they were both hovering on the precipice. Sherlock’s eyes darkened as he wrapped his own hand around John’s between them, moving in a slick glide of skin and salt water.

“You know why we’ve lasted twenty-seven times longer than four days, don’t you John?” he whispered, struggling to get the words out. John shook his head, frantically chasing the bloom of orgasm. “Because when I go, you come with me. So _come with me_ , John.” Sherlock squeezed once, twice, and pleasure washed over them together as powerful as the waves crashing into the shoreline.

Sherlock staggered back up toward the shallows, and together they sank onto the textured tile, clinging to one another and catching their breath. The sun reflected brilliantly off of the moving water, and John basked in it, sated and pliant as he rested in the curve of Sherlock’s arms. For far longer than John would have expected, Sherlock sat idly, running his fingers over the wet skin of John’s back, keeping the lazy arousal thrumming in both of their bodies. Finally, when their skin was pruned and beginning to pinken in the sun, John stood.

“Sherlock Holmes, I think it’s high time we go inside and dirty up those five hundred quid sheets.” He offered a steady hand to help Sherlock up, eyes riveted to the water sliding down his lover’s heat-flushed body.

“Well, it does seem a waste not to.”

The stretch of sand outside their little cabin was pristine, a soft white ripple of earth for turquoise waters to lap against. John and Sherlock relaxed on lightly padded chaise lounges, watching the brilliant sunset over the horizon. John sipped carefully on an ale, something dark and full-bodied with plenty of foam, condensation clinging to the glass, while Sherlock drank a sugar-filled cocktail straight out of a coconut, purchased from a vendor down the beach. The smell of surf and sun lotion hung heavy in the air.

“Are you hungry?” John took a drink and shoved his mostly-empty pint glass down into the warm sand.

“Are you really asking me that?” Sherlock licked at the sugar his coconut had been rimmed with, pink tongue flickering out over the white flesh. John sat transfixed for a moment before remembering they’d had delicious holiday sex, twice, less than four hours ago, and his libido needed to calm well down before it killed him.

“Probably won’t get you to eat again until Thursday at this rate,” John sighed, put-upon. Sherlock took a cheeky bite of the fleshy inside of his coconut.

“Human beings can survive on coconut and vitamin C alone, John. You should be impressed by my resourcefulness.”

John laughed in spite of himself, pulling his sunglasses down over his eyes. “What I’m impressed by is how you’re no less of a git on a tropical sex holiday.”

“Hm, yes,” Sherlock agreed absentmindedly. He sucked hard through his straw, slurping up the last of his cocktail with enthusiasm. “Have I told you about increasing rates of monogamous homosexual pair bonding within American flamingo stands?”

“Nah, you haven’t,” John said, staring out across the sea and seeing the years stretch happily in front of them both. “But I’m sure you’re going to.”

**Author's Note:**

> Your feedback is valuable to all fic writers, and I'm no exception. If you enjoyed this story, please let me know.
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr](http://quicklikelight.tumblr.com).


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